


So Far From Home

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 03:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15355530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: A man takes stock of his life at times like these.  Sometimes he finds it wanting.





	So Far From Home

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's notes:** Written for Sentinel Thursday prompt #292: The big 4-0.
> 
> I've always wanted to write a story in second person.

It’s raining, and you close your umbrella as you enter the restaurant, shaking the water off. You furl it tightly, placing it in the stand by the door, and hang your coat up on the rack. The restaurant smells good, the aromas of cooking food mingling with the scent of fresh herbs and sweet perfumes. You’d asked the concierge for his recommendation; it’s a little outside the expense limit, but what the hell.

It’s your fortieth birthday, after all.

“One, for dinner,” you tell the maitre’d. You try to ignore the pity you see in her eyes. 

She leads you to a table; you sit and take the menu she offers you. The dishes are all so unfamiliar, the language still strange and awkward to you. A wave of homesickness sweeps over you all of a sudden, a longing for American food, American voices, American words. 

_Stop it_ , you tell yourself. _It’s better than another room service burger, overpriced and greasy_. 

The waiter comes over and you ask for a Scotch and soda. When he brings it, you order, having managed to struggle through the rest of the menu and make a choice. He inclines his head gravely and hurries away. As you sip your drink, your gaze roams the crowded restaurant. You notice that you are the only person eating alone.

Your eyes light on a woman and two small boys sitting at a table near the window. The children are chattering away in their bright, musical language; the woman is laughing, her face aglow as she listens to them. You don’t have enough command of the language to follow it at this pace, but from their tone and gestures it seems the children are asking her questions about the various items on the table. She answers them solemnly, but her eyes are dancing. 

As you watch, a man approaches, dressed in a sober, well-cut suit. He kisses the woman lightly, exchanges some words with her, and slides into the empty chair, ruffling the hair of one of the boys as he does so. The boys exclaim. “Papa!” they cry, in their tongue. You recognize that word, at least.

Your food arrives. The presentation is beautiful, the dish seasoned and cooked to perfection. It’s delicious. The glass of Burgundy you’ve ordered with the meal is rich and full. But there’s something... missing. Your gaze keeps getting drawn back to the boys and their parents.

They’re in their own little world, the two adults shooting fond, indulgent glances at each other as they help the children negotiate their meal. They look so happy, so... together.

And all of a sudden your appetite is gone. The excellent food turns to ashes in your mouth. 

You hurry through the rest of the meal, barely tasting what you’re eating. You pay the tab and leave, wanting nothing more than to get to the familiar security of your hotel room. 

But once there, you find it hard to relax. Even with the television on, the murmur of voices like the rush of wind in the pines, you can’t settle down. You keep thinking of that family; how they looked, how they laughed. How close they were.

On an impulse, you pick up the phone and dial. 

“Ellison residence.”

“Sally, it’s Bill,” you say.

“Mr. Ellison!” she replies, surprise in her voice. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine, everything’s fine,” you say. “Are the boys around?”

“No, I’m sorry, they’re... they’re still in school.”

Of course. _Idiot_ , you think. You had forgotten about the time zone difference.

“Is it something important? Do you want me to call the school and have them taken out of class?”

“No, no, no, it’s nothing serious,” you assure her. “Just... ah... tell Jimmy I expect his time to have improved on his wind sprints. And make sure... make sure Stevie does his math homework. He’s in danger of falling behind.”

“I will, Mr. Ellison. I’ll tell them you called.”

“Thanks, Sally. And tell them....” You pause, all the things you want to say, but can’t, clogging your throat. “Tell them I’ll be home soon.” You hang up without waiting for a reply. 

The room seems smaller; confining, somehow. You pour yourself two fingers of the whiskey you bought yesterday and stand in front of the window, looking out at the city lights. 

So far from home.

You raise your glass to your reflection. “Happy birthday to me,” you say, and you drink the liquor down.


End file.
